Quartet
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Waterloo". A little reflection at the end of a polite evening at a London restaurant... Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** _No idea where this came from. It was just a sudden, unexpected burst of creativity._  
><em>Massive thanks to Mossie for the fastest-ever turn round a Beta could ever manage!<em>

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><p><strong>Quartet<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p>It's at the very end of the evening that they suddenly find themselves alone together. A tiny, unexpected interlude as they wait just inside the restaurant door, he impatiently and she serenely. Grace catches his eye almost by accident and smiles tentatively. He smiles back, a touch hesitant, a touch awkward, but then, instead of quickly looking away as she half-expects, he says, "You're happy."<p>

It's not a question. It's a statement, one that should come heavily loaded with meaning given the circumstances, but actually seems rather guileless. His bluntness doesn't surprise her – not after the better part of a decade. Deciding to take the words at face value, Grace allows herself to smile again as she nods. "Yes."

"Good. I'm glad."

Strangely enough, she believes him, even if she still senses a touch of misplaced territorial bristling beneath the façade of easy urbanity. She suspects that no matter what happens or how much time passes he will always automatically bristle protectively where she is concerned. It's habit that's become far too ingrained over the years. It should infuriate her, but somehow she finds it gently endearing. It seems it's going to be irrelevant how much things change; he will always see himself as her guardian angel. She reaches out to pat his arm, an intimate, affectionate gesture, one she still unconsciously feels she has the right to.

While they are still alone, she dares to ask, "What about you, Peter? Are you happy?"

Boyd seems to consider the question carefully before answering. "I suspect I might be."

She laughs quietly at the reply. So typical of him. "Or, at least as happy as it's possible to be stuck out at Hendon?"

He grimaces. "A purely temporary situation, Grace, I assure you."

"That's the spirit. Though a little bird tells me you look very… dashing… going off to work in uniform every day."

His disparaging snort amuses her. Never one to miss an opportunity, he says, "So… will you think about it?"

"Coming in to talk about the role of a profiler? Yes, I'll think about it – but I meant what I said. I'm enjoying my retirement."

Boyd feigns a shudder, but before he can say anything they are both distracted by the reappearance of Murray Stuart on the far side of the restaurant. Aware of the almost imperceptible tautening of Boyd's stance, Grace makes an effort to keep her answering amusement firmly to herself. There are definite undercurrents between the two men – something that remains politely unspoken, but is no less real because of it. As Murray walks over to join them, Grace says quietly, "You don't have to like him… but he's a good man."

Boyd looks down at her, and for a moment something she can't interpret sparks in his dark eyes. Just as quiet, just as solemn, he says, "He'd better be, Grace. He'd better be."

She understands. The past they share – the personal, not professional past – allows certain rights and responsibilities to endure. For a moment it's just them, and everything that used to be. No pain, no regrets, not anymore. Just the shared knowledge of what they once were, and what they are now. That they still love each other isn't in question, nor is the fact that they are now both _in love_ with other people.

She says, "You don't need to worry. Really."

Boyd just nods slightly, and then Murray is with them, still trying his best to make a good impression, still trying to be friendly and courteous, just for her. It's painfully obvious that they don't like each other much, the two men, but that both of them are doing their best, and she loves them both for it. They are more alike than they realise, and that makes her smile inwardly. Gruff, tough, taciturn men; both capable of inordinate gentleness, both willing to defend her against anything without a single qualm.

The final member of their quartet eventually appears, and Grace smiles fondly as she watches the younger woman saunter towards them. A smile that becomes amused as she sees Boyd shaking his head impatiently. He hates to be kept waiting for anything, and Grace guesses that sparks will fly later – for Frankie Wharton is no shrinking violet. If he complains irritably, Grace has no doubt that Frankie will lash straight back at him. And maybe that's why they work so well together – he is fiery, she is feisty and neither of them suffers fools gladly. There's no guarantee that it will work for them this time – it hasn't when they've tried before – but the fact that he's mellowed a little and she's less prickly than she used to be just might give them a head start.

Joining them, Frankie says casually, "Sorry. There was a queue."

Boyd glowers, but says nothing. But Grace doesn't miss the way he instinctively reaches out a hand and Frankie takes it, apparently without thinking.

"Shall we go?" Grace suggests.

Outside, it's raining. Sullen, steady London rain. It's a good excuse for some male posturing, Grace realises as Boyd very pointedly drapes his heavy top coat around Frankie's shoulders instead of donning it himself. Murray hesitates – he only has the jacket he's wearing, and Grace can see him trying to decide whether he will look more or less gauche if he shrugs out of it and gives it to her. Swiftly, she rescues him, making the choice unnecessary by producing a small folding umbrella from the depths of her large bag – and she sees Boyd smirk very slightly in response.

There's no denying it. Grace thinks ruefully. Of course they still love each other. Probably, they always will – but in a very mature, gently affectionate way. As a lover Boyd was exciting, yes, but also volatile and unreliable, far too driven by his demons, far too obsessed with his work. Trying to hold onto him was like trying to catch and hold the wind. He's a better friend by far than he ever was a lover, and time has enabled them both to fully come to terms with the fact. Grace rolls her eyes at his smirk, and he raises his eyebrows a fraction. It's not flirtation, not anymore, but there's still something there between them, a connection that will continue to endure.

"Come over for dinner," Grace says to Frankie, deliberately not looking at either of the men.

"We will," Frankie agrees.

It won't happen. There are too many strings to this particular quartet. Grace and Murray; Boyd and Frankie; Grace and Boyd. The neutral ground of a restaurant is feasible, but not the rooms of his house or hers. Too many memories, too many associations. For all of them.

A little too brusquely, Murray says, "We should be going, Grace."

Grace is close enough to Boyd to see a muscle twitch in his jaw, to see the dark eyes take on a flinty edge, but to his credit he keeps his mouth firmly shut. The erstwhile lover knows his place. She doesn't want to imagine a physical confrontation between the two – she genuinely has no idea who would come out on top. The police officer or the former soldier…?

She says, "It's been a lovely evening, thank you."

Social niceties. Boyd and Murray shake hands, and it's a quick and very obvious trial of strength. Neither flinches, neither gives ground. The grip seems to be released by unspoken mutual consent. Grace leans in to embrace Frankie, and a wry, knowing exchange of looks passes between them, a tacit acknowledgement of the swaggering, pointless bravado of their men.

When she turns slightly to embrace Boyd, the naked flash of jealousy in Murray's grey eyes is very clear to Grace. It saddens her a little, but it doesn't intimidate her, doesn't stop her. The contours of Boyd are as familiar as the scent of Boyd, and maybe they do hold onto each other for a second or two too long, but that's all right – they understand, even if the other two never will.

Close to her ear, Boyd's deep voice is very soft. He murmurs, "If you need me…"

"I know," she whispers back.

Stepping away, she's not surprised by the possessive arm that Murray immediately places around her waist. Nor by the way Frankie loops a proprietorial arm through Boyd's. There's nothing subtle about it on either side. The goodnights said, the two couples finally walk away from each other.

In not very many minutes, one of those couples will be walking in frosty silence while the other makes do with sharp banter. By morning the dust will have settled. But at least one of the quartet will still be asking themselves questions to which there are no clear answers.

_- the end -_

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><p><em><strong>May 2012<strong>: originally written as a oneshot, this story now has a follow-on - "Duet"._


End file.
